


I just wanna make love to you

by heyfrenchfreudiana



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Domestic Fluff, Exhibitionism, F/M, Flash Fic, Footsie, Id Fic, Library Sex, Love Bites, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin, Steve is clueless, Tumblr Prompt, Virgin Steve Rogers, Wall Sex, Wet Clothing Kink, Wet Dream, in chapter 4, no betas here, nsfw gifs at the end of chapter 2, other avengers mentioned in passing - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 20:53:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4801883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyfrenchfreudiana/pseuds/heyfrenchfreudiana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlets (Drabbles?) based on an NSFW tumblr prompt meme. Steve and Natasha and NSFW. You know...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prompt 7: Ode to White T-Shirts

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr prompt [here](http://heyfrenchfreudiana.tumblr.com/post/129038152679/semi-nsfw-meme-send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...being drenched whilst wearing white" (as requested by Dresupi)
> 
> Also, side note, I didn't realize until after I'd done some youtubing, just how much this commercial from childhood has been imprinted into my memory. Credit where credit's due: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O1bsFn0F5vI

“Jesus, but does he have to wear white?”

Darcy echoed the sentiment of most when she said this under her breath, before giving Natasha an unapologetic shrug of her shoulders and a wide-eyed look that said _I didn’t mean to say that out loud but I’m not sorry._ Natasha raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, because it wasn’t like Jane’s intern was wrong, wasn’t like Captain America’s penchant for white crewnecks wasn’t something that hadn’t caused her to toss some curses of her own.

He wore them whenever he was doing what he would probably consider “downtime”, and the first few times she’d given him a pass. Old fashioned white t-shirts, insert grandpa jokes here because they were exactly the shirts she knew he wore underneath his button-ups. No SHIELD-issued workout gear for Steve, though she couldn’t blame him for wanting some creature comforts.

Though it wasn’t as if every heterosexual woman within eyesight and handfuls of men weren’t grateful. Something that Natasha found out via a text message sent en masse, probably including her by error and/or stupidity.

_Grab your popcorn, ladies. Showtime in the garage._

She followed two giggling agents who spent more time in finance than the field, to one of the security offices on the fifth floor. Not sure what to expect, Natasha hadn’t expected a small multitude standing in front of the monitors as JARVIS, bless him, recorded Steve Rogers picking up a wrench to work on his Harley.

A stranger would have thought that the Avengers Tower was suddenly screening porn.

Least of all because suddenly seventeen different monitors (and two larger screens) in a darkened room had decided to cruelly find every angle of serum-enhanced…Steve.

Least of all because of the big screen that was pointed at an obviously oblivious Captain America as he furrowed a brow in concentration, as he attended to the brake lever on one side, lips in a straight in a straight line.

His pecs flexed, undoubtedly not a conscious move, and Phyllis from HR moaned. No one snickered or said a word, everyone busy watching with collective mouths on the floor.

Natasha smirked though she honestly couldn’t judge. Unlike the rest of them, she’d been close enough to feel those tits, better yet held in those arms as he shielded her and protected her. She’d been pinned underneath him a few times in the gym, a sparring session or two in which she’d seen firsthand how strong he was. In which she’d firsthand seen all of the veins and lines and muscle that clearly had Ben the IT guy who acted like he knew everything questioning his sexuality.

Natasha hid along the back wall, doing what she knew how to do best in blending in. It was a handy skill because everyone else was too hypnotized to notice that the Black Widow was obviously entranced herself. Not that anyone paying attention would have noticed the way Steve crouched alongside a motorcycle had her heart pounding or the lower half of her body aching, something dull and exquisite and addicting.

Natasha was a little shit.

She wasn’t impulsive, almost not ever. But Steve Rogers in a white t-shirt that didn’t even fit him _Jesus_ , fiddling with his bike, taking an entire generation of rookie agents to church and she couldn’t get the idea out of her head once she’d thought of it.

Sidling over to one of the control panels, an eye scanning the room and spending extra seconds mentally devouring Steve’s ass in jeans that she knew he probably only thought proper to wear when he was about to get dirty, Natasha mentally reviewed the risks.

It was possible that Tony would have a minor heart attack.

Collateral damage, she figured as she pulled up the window that would give her command over the emergency commands and protocols for the garage. Even Tony would understand the temptation. A couple of finger swipes, _initiate? Are you sure?_

_As sure as she was that the sky was blue, fucking yes._

The entire room gasped as the fire sprinkler system activated, a consistent downpour focused singularly on the garage. Nineteen television monitors capturing a sudden rainstorm in the place where Tony Stark kept the Maserati and it was fucking worth it because the Maserati was at least covered in a tarp whereas Steve was definitely not.

“Oh God,” someone whimpered.

No one moved, allowing Natasha to slip back into the shadows, allowing her the opportunity to enjoy the show.

No sound but a few clear swears from Steve’s mouth as he jumped up, looking up at the ceiling, and she knew he was calling out to the A.I. for help. Natasha felt a tinge of regret that his bike would be getting the brunt of any water damage, though she rightly figured that JARVIS would have turned things off before long.

Though, mercifully, not before Steve had also received some water damage.

 _Well_ , she decided, _now he’s at least as wet as Phyllis._

If the shirt had been offensive before, it was a crime after being drenched. Because then nothing was left to the imagination. Natasha stifled her own noises because oh, the whole world could see every line and curve and it was being recorded. She let her mind wander, imagining what it would be like to rip his shirt off and worship.

The crowd dispersed when he did, only minutes later when he exited the garage, his hair in clumps and his clothes clinging. She’d been on her way to check intel on a side mission when she’d been sidetracked by the text and the show, but the entire affair had given her a new goal.

***

He sloshed up to his apartment, sour and frustrated because that “technical glitch” had made an easy problem with the bike suddenly something bigger.  Not that any damage couldn’t be reversed or replaced but it was a new hassle. Palm on security screen and door opened, he decided it wasn’t something he couldn’t talk to Stark about later. The current priority was a towel.

He’d been thinking of what he would even say to Tony, and whether or not it would even be worth it to complain about faulty sprinklers, when he was stopped in his tracks by Natasha Romanoff standing in his bathroom with a handful of towels.

Anyone else and he would have asked how she’d even gotten in.

“Heard you might need these…” she said, voice all throaty and eyes dark.  


	2. Prompt 21: Vonnegut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...leaving hickeys on the other's neck" (as requested by Sunnie91)

“The fuck happened to you, Rogers, you get in a fight with a hoover?” 

Stark had been in the middle of a long, drawn-out monologue on something technical and probably important.  A team debrief about Quinjet mechanics post the latest-under-the-sea-god-manic-rage-fiasco, and he’d stopped mid-sentence to point out something Steve had hoped wouldn’t even be as noticeable as it apparently was. 

He didn’t answer, putting on the sternest face he could muster, though apparently he couldn’t fight the flush in his cheeks. A flush that only appeared because he’d been thinking about the red mark on his throat and how it had gotten there. He was surprised it was still visible at all, given that he’d been with the person who’d put the mark there the night before and wasn’t that ample time for him to heal?

“Some kind of mosquito bite,” he answered quickly, feeling the eyes of everyone on him, his brain searching for ways to shut the focus on him down so that they could all move on to the business at hand.  
“My ass,” Stark snorted, “more like a spider.”

 _Subtle._ Steve caught Natasha rolling her eyes, arms crossed and looking very much like she had other things she’d rather be doing. Clint sat down next to her, handed her one of those overpriced cardboard cups of coffee, and when she leaned forward, elbows on the conference table, Steve was afforded the hint of something purple and red peeking out from the edges of her top. It wasn’t obvious, at least unless someone knew what to look for and where to look, wasn’t like she was wearing the kind of clothes that would put the mark on display…

 _He knew where to look._ Knowledge that had all the blood moving from his head to his cock, and Steve had to sit down or else he’d pass out, letting the table be his shield. The last thing the team needed was for Stark to notice and elaborate on what would be a very obvious appearance from Steve’s dick.

Her eyes met his and she shivered, zipping up her hoodie but still stonefaced, not giving anything away, which made the memory of the night before all the more jarring. The rest of the team might have an idea that they’d been seeing each other, or at least that he’d taken her to the movies a few times, and Clint might even have the clear knowledge that they’d been intimate. And now, no thanks to Tony Stark, people might even suppose that Steve had gotten to second base though who would have the balls to say that out loud, knowing how much Captain America valued his privacy and worse knowing that the Black Widow could incapacitate someone with a paperclip (he’d seen it happen).  
Honestly, it had been all her fault. She’d so clearly instigated the whole damn thing, and maybe a greater man would have had more control but what was he supposed to do. 

He’d come home from the gym and had his head bent to the kitchen faucet, drinking water like a dog when he’d heard her. Hadn’t expected Natasha’s company though she had a key and was more than welcome any time.  
“Hello, Soldier,” she’d purred, a voice like butter and even so he’d choked on the stream of water, his stomach churning and ass clenching in surprise. 

Lord if Natasha Romanoff wasn’t sprawled out on his couch, mostly naked and head in all the curls he loved to tug on, a weathered red paperback in hand and a few other of his books in a stack on the floor below her. 

“Vonnegut…” he breathed, not sure what else to say, honestly not sure what else he could say because she looked like a painting. Because the white panties she’d worn covered more than she usually seemed to prefer, high-cut and high-waisted, though the effect only made him want her more. Only made her legs look longer and then he didn’t know what he wanted to do first, kneel at her feet and kiss those legs or pick her up so that she could wrap them around his waist. 

“Slaughterhouse Five. It’s a beach read,” she deadpanned and he groaned because damned if she hadn’t let a hand wander to one of those pink nipples, and he was sure he was about five seconds from becoming the exact opposite of moral and professional and honorable. A quick pinch and a roll between her thumb and forefinger and he was about ready to call ‘Uncle’ because she’d found his weakness. 

“Romanoff,” he started, willing himself not to lose control so early in the game even as she hummed, not looking at him but turning a page instead. Just as well because he was still glued to his spot near the kitchen sink, any memories of the gym or plans for the rest of the day out the window.

“This very well may put me to sleep, Rogers,” she raised an eyebrow, not paying him any obvious attention.

“That’s not good,” he answered, mentally mapping out all of the different strategies for how to make her scream his name, mentally reviewing which ones he knew were her favorite and then which ones he’d try out first. 

“Here I am thinking I might kill some time with all these books you have and honestly, I’m a little bored now.”

“Maybe books aren’t the right way to kill time,” he said carefully, hands into fists as he took a few steps closer and _Holy Christ_ , she was gorgeous. He could see the way her skin flushed, could even see the rise and fall of her chest and the goosebumps along her arms and abdomen. She peeked up from her book (his book), eyes telling him that she wasn’t as bored as she let on, and he knew she was just waiting to strike anyway…

It happened by way of her dragging a leg up, toes pointed down as she brought her knees open in such a way that was so clearly invitational, even as her focus was on whatever Kurt Vonnegut had to say. 

“So entertain me,” she countered, challenging him in an even tone. 

It broke him. Because Steve liked the challenge, liked the adrenaline rush that came from playing the game with her. And so he was pushing hardbacks that even he hadn’t thumbed through aside so that he could kneel in their place, a hand on one knee and his lips on the other before she’d even had the time to sit up. The sound of her gasping, the smell of her wanting him, and he could feel himself devolving, could feel his brain cells attacking one another. He throbbed for her, she was so soft, and he’d at least enough sense to push that out of his mind for a moment because her underwear was a fantastic piece of delicate lace and he was sure he needed all the brainpower he could find to not rip it off, lest it be a favorite pair. 

She sat then, book still in hand, and it became clear she’d intended on reading while he ate her out, all attitude and brat, testing him to see what he’d do.  
Natasha held that book enough to guard her face but he knew her, at least well enough to feel the heat of her skin and the way she squirmed when he nipped at the inside of her thigh. 

“Still bored?” he asked, testing her right back as he dragged a finger along the line of her lips, swollen even through her panties. An exaggerated turn of the page and he knew it was all lies, as if spreading her legs wider didn’t tell a story of its’ own. 

“So fucking bored, Rogers. Are you going to fix that or keep talking?”  
She might have said something further but he cut her off with his mouth, pressed against her cunt because he was curious to see how much those panties covered, curious to see if he could taste her even through them… Apparently, he could, because he was sucking at the fabric, sucking at her, greedy for the sighs she gave and the way one hand was suddenly clutching his hair as much as for the moisture, tangy and addicting. 

Steve hadn’t even realized when she’d tossed the book down, his mind to focused on pulling her underwear to one side so that he could trace patterns around her clit with his tongue, but then he was looking up and she was eyes tightly shut and bottom lip in mouth almost certainly not bored.  

It was in the act of pulling those underwear off that he’d been triggered to do damage. The first mark had honestly been accidental, licking and sucking on the inside of her thigh because all of her tasted so good. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing, part of his mind devoted more to the fact that he’d had a finger buried deep inside her at the time. Had he been sucking on her leg as a diversion, another way to drive her slowly crazy because in combination with what he knew was not finger enough even without her bucking hips and curses? 

It didn’t matter because he’d stopped long enough to add his middle and ring finger, long enough to return to the much more pressing matter of her fucking his face as he sucked on her clit that he didn’t even realize. Not until she was panting, coming down from at least one orgasm that would prove more important than anything found in a book about war,  and he could sit on his heels and take a good look at her. 

“I want you to do that again,” she told him as he kissed her apologetically, the purple bruise on her leg a blow to his libido because he hadn’t wanted to hurt her, hadn’t even thought he would be that guy.

“Really,” she slid down to the floor, arms around his neck so that she was eye-level with him and he could see that she meant it. “Mark me, Steve.”  
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, forehead creased in concern because he wasn’t an animal and she wasn’t his property. Except that he wanted her to be his, even if they’d decided unofficially that it wasn’t for the world to know. It was all he’d ever wanted, some kind of claim over her, some kind of proof that what they had was meaningful and exclusive.

“I want you to,” she repeated before kissing his throat, hands traveling under his shirt to pull him close. “I want to feel you for days, Steve.”

“Natasha”, he groaned in protest. “I don’t want to hurt you….”

“You think too much,” she mumbled into his skin, a skilled hand sliding underneath the waistband of his pants as she applied her own suction to his neck. “See, it doesn’t hurt…”

Steve hadn’t always been one for making smart decisions.  And even later when he’d had the chance to examine his work, careful placement of only a handful of bruises along her pale skin that no one else could see, he could rationalize that she’d been right or at least not wrong. Marking her as his, sucking on her breasts as she rode his cock, feeling her tighten around him and knowing that she was leaving marks of her own. 

_His. Hers. Possession_. Surrender that they both only found in small doses and lately only with each other.  Implicit meanings in hidden bruises.  Even if he was reading into things, knowledge that Stark might point out a hickey on his neck but she’d been covered with even more, those more valuable because of what it meant for her to lose control and what it meant that only he knew they were even there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 


	3. Prompt 22: Lemons from Lemonade (The Wind-up)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...trying to play footsie with the other during a meeting" (as requested by Seriinu and an anon).

Natasha Romanoff was playing with fire. She’d never not been a little reckless, even if she was thoughtful and controlled in most ways, and taking risks was about as good as any drug. It meant jumping onto speeding (trains/buses/airplanes/henchmen) and running through burning buildings but it was also what made her good at her job. 

It was a risk, sliding her foot across the table to Steve’s ankle, probably more for him than for her honestly, because it was a serious dinner after all and they couldn’t have America’s Sweetheart getting a footjob from the Black Widow. But she’d been curious, and maybe a little selfish, because she knew he’d pay her back later. And because she was bored. Another dinner party with important government people and people with money (used interchangeably), another opportunity to listen to men talk about why her job was or wasn’t important, and she would honestly rather have been at home watching TV in her pajamas instead of eating rubber chicken in heels that she hadn’t yet broken in.

Make lemonade out of lemons.  Or in this case, slipping off aforementioned heels so that she could give the bridges of her feet a rest.  A congressman was saying something important but she doubted anyone else was really paying attention. Tony and Pepper were whispering, Clint was focused entirely on clearing his plate,  tie askew just enough that she knew he’d been trying to figure out how to pull it off for the past hour, and a few tables of attendees who were pretending that they were interested to varying degrees. 

It left Bruce and Steve, both excellent at listening and paying attention, and she thought they probably had both been teacher’s favorites as schoolboys.

  
_Steve as a schoolboy,_ an image she didn’t think she needed until it was there…

Had she been seated across from Bruce and she might have taken her phone out to play a word game or text Clint. She might even have convinced herself to pay more attention, following Bruce’s lead because it wasn’t like she didn’t know how to play pretend. 

As it was, they’d put her placecard down in front of Steve Rogers. Steve Rogers who was so good at straight-faced and respectful and she knew out of all of them, most likely to mean it. Even when he didn’t agree with the message, he at least listened. Knowledge that she tucked away for future reference, because she was definitely more interested in focusing on him as a boy.  He would have been a good boy, just as eager to please then as he might be now or probably more so, and that thought had her wondering if he’d ever be the kind of guy to let a girl take control. Could schoolboy Steve Rogers let someone teach him a lesson? Natasha had played that role a few times, had gotten a few men to eat out of her hand, and wasn’t it always the sober ones with too much to carry that were best at ceding power and control when rightly given the opportunity? 

The idea of Steve Rogers on his knees or maybe bent over that table or maybe even drilling into her in the coat closet was enough that she had to cross her legs a few times, if only to release some pressure. And she must have been staring into space because she could hear him, whispering her name and asking her if she was okay, 

“Definitely…fine,” she let a slow smile work its way through, the kind of smile that probably would have communicated to any other victim that he or she should be afraid. Steve just smiled back and reached for the bread basket in the middle of the table. 

He was mid-bite of sourdough when she slid her foot over, when she let her toes bump against his ankle, even just slightly lifting the legs of his dress trousers. Brows furrowed, his chewing slowed and she noted that he didn’t look at her as he moved his leg. As if rationalizing that she’d just accidentally bumped into him, _that kind of thing happens all the time, of course._

Not deterred, Natasha took a sip of water and let her toes walk on over again, again to nudge at his ankle and the cuff of his pants. Looking over, he’d definitely stopped chewing, as if holding food in his mouth so as not to choke. Brain trying to compute what her plan was. The thought came to her that in all likelihood, Steve hadn’t ever had a girl run her foot along his calves, hadn’t ever had to consider whether or not to spread his knees open in order to allow for further undercover play. 

What most didn’t understand, though Natasha had spent time observing, was that Steve was just as reckless as she if not more so. Two sides of the same coin, because he was good at being _good_ (oh and she wouldn’t mind seeing more of _that_ ), but also good at ignoring boundaries and asking questions later, after he’d already jumped out of an airplane without a parachute. Get the boy’s heart rate high enough and he had no sense of self-preservation. 

_Exactly_ , she decided as she rested her foot on the space of chair between his legs, _what she needed._

She wondered if he’d grab her foot when she pressed the arch against the inside of his thigh, if he’s stop her before she moved higher, out of misplaced and adorable sense of propriety, or if he’d follow her lead and jump out of the proverbial airplane. Face tell-tale flushed to anyone who was paying attention, and she was staring at him even while taking deliberate sips from her glass. He didn’t overtly signal that he was currently being played by Natasha, though he did finish his roll, his bites more controlled and thoughtful than she’d ever seen. 

And then he reached for another roll, eyes still focused on the speaker. As if to say that she could go ahead and play but that he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of looking or overtly engaging. As if to say that if she wanted to play, he wasn’t going to make it easy. 

_Naughty. Boy._

Feeling predatorial, she raised an eyebrow and moved so that the tips of her toes were grazing his cock. A small payoff because even if he’d been doing his damndest to ignore her like a champ, his dick was telling her something else and she could feel the heat and muscle. It drove her mad and she shifted, everything in her tight and contracting because this was exactly the kind of dinner party entertainment she was up for.

A quick tap against him and she could hear him clearing his throat. The ball of her foot shifting and she could feel a quick hand snapping against her ankle. She’d chosen stockings and when she flexed her foot she could feel the toe line, an extra sensation. Maybe she could get him to pull those off with his teeth later. The thought alone had her wet and squirming in her seat. 

“I don’t know why I even come to these things,” the white-haired gentlemen next to her leaned over and whispered conspiratorially. “Getting all dressed up for rubber chicken.”

“That’s what I’ve always thought,” she nodded, not moving her foot and noting that Steve’s grip hadn't relaxed either. A quick look over and she could see that his focus might be on the speaker but the hand holding a bread roll was now curled into the table cloth and _was he even breathing_? She couldn’t tell but the possibility that she’d be giving grandpa heart palpitations made her feel smug and satisfied. 

“I hope they at least bring out a decent tiramisu,” her tablemate chuckled and she honestly could care less about desert unless it involved Steve Rogers using that weapon between his thighs to fuck her within an inch of her life in one of the limos downstairs. Not that she could safely use that as small talk table conversation…

“What do you think, Steve?” she asked, punctuating her question with an another intentional flex and roll of her foot. 

Her question snapped him out of the fog that he’d been pretending he wasn’t in and when his eyes moved finally away from the speaker to her, eyes dark enough that anyone would be hard-pressed to recognize the blue, she recognized that in all actuality, she was the one who wasn’t breathing.

“Dessert, Captain Rogers,” she clarified, her voice a little less steady than she would have preferred. “We were just talking about dessert.”

“I…” he cleared his throat. “Have we finished eating the main course yet?”

“I guess we’d better finish then,” she announced, with enough playfulness in her voice that most wouldn’t hear the command. 

She pulled her foot down and the whole table probably noticed the way Captain America’s shoulders slumped as he curled into the table, face in hands as if he’d had a headache. 

“Think I ate too much,” he said in apology to their tablemates, most nodding or shrugging shoulders because no one really cared. And even less when she stood up and flattened the wrinkles on her red cocktail dress. 

Well, Steve cared. Looked up at her with wide eyes because he couldn’t outright ask her why she’d stopped or if she’d mind continuing. 

“I’m going to go look for information on that dessert,” she explained. “Captain Rogers, you can join me if you’d like but otherwise, I’ll be right back.”

“Right,” he answered. Not giving him a second glance, she turned and made her way toward the ladies room. 

It was only a handful of minutes later and right after she’d finished reapplying her lipstick that she’d found herself pushed against a full-length mirror, Captain America getting handsy as she hiked up her skirt and pressed herself against the part of him that had been teasing her for the better part of dinner. Her fists were in his jacket as he bucked hips into her and  she thought they might have been able to find some portion of release just doing that, except that it would certainly fall short of at least what she had in mind. 

The temptation was to fuck all the rules and decorum and just take the opportunity as presented to her. Another one of those risks that they were both great at chasing. 

But as much as anyone could call them reckless, they both had nerves of steel and she knew she could at least bank on his patience, enough that when she took a deep breath and pushed him gently away from the sloppy spot he’d been making on her throat, he’d eventually understand.

  
“How bout we put this on pause, Captain,” she said with gentle authority. 

Another man would have tried to convince her otherwise. Hell, Clint probably would have been on his knees and begging. And for Steve, that tactic might even have worked despite her better judgment. Ah but Steve was a gentleman, after all, and so after a good minute of breathing hotly into her skin, he was straightening himself up and leaning against the wall opposite her. 

Gentlemen or not, he looked as pained as he probably felt, enough to make her feel a twinge of guilt. She’d started a game that they wouldn’t be finishing anytime in the near future, at least not when they were supposed to be out in the main dining hall maintaining their good and lawful images. 

Steve was still gasping for air and looking very much like the last thing he wanted to do was go back out and join the party. She turned back to face the mirror, doing what she could to fix any damage to hair and makeup, a needed distraction from the way her veins buzzed. 

She hadn’t expected him to stand behind her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him making every hair on the nape of her neck stand tall, reminding her very much of her initial thought that she was playing with fire.

  
“We are going to finish this later,” he spoke carefully into her skin, turning the tables so that she was the one almost certainly in position to be taught a lesson. 

“I hope so,” she sassed back, using every ounce of restraint she could find because suddenly he was one hundred percent earning the title and all she could think about was how much he could wreck her and how much she wanted it. 

What made her jump more? The sound of his hand on her ass, even through her dress? Or maybe that Steve Rogers had just spanked her at all, let alone in the ladies’ room when anyone could have walked in at any time, and she was sure she’d start her own begging if he didn’t leave her to collect herself. The entire scene had caught her off guard, because it certainly was counter to what she had anticipated…

“Your place or mine, Romanoff?”

“Mine,” she met his eyes in the mirror and arched her back, inviting him to give it another go if he so desired. 

“Good. Now let’s go see about this dessert.”


	4. Prompt 10: The Stacks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 10: Pinning the other against a wall. As requested by Anon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU. Because reasons. I don't even know what this is to be honest. Definitely morphed into something not flash-fic. Do you ever see those posts where someone says "Dear author, never apologize about length"? Because this is way longer than I thought it would be. Side inspirations: "Dearly Departed" by Shakey Graves and Nicki Minaj talking about sexual liberation and not giving a goddamn about it all. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Spanglecap and Dresupi both seemed to approve when I discussed my ideas for this ficlet so I regret nothing.

They probably wouldn’t have ever said two words to each other, had it not been for the library. The ideal campus job, at least as far as Steve was concerned, because during the right shift you’d basically be getting paid to spend half of your semester watching youtube and the other half cramming for exams and helping overtired students check out books or figure out the microfiche.

He’d be lying if he said he’d never given the sophomore who usually worked the late shift with him a second glance because even if she was aloof as hell, she had legs longer than he thought was even possible in real life and _fuck_ if she didn’t seem to love to show them off. Short skirts in September and jeans tight enough to give him a heart attack through October and November, punctuated by tall black boots that he thought he would have licked if she’d asked.

Not that he had any particular fetish or whatever. But he did wonder later on if he’d started clicking just a little more on the femdom clips in his dorm at about the time that she’d started working there…

Natasha. Fairly quiet, kept to herself except for an occasional glare anytime anyone came to the front desk to ask her for help (people learned fast to go to Steve if they wanted to know if they could borrow the video being held for Professor X’s psych class or where to go to make photocopies). If asked, he couldn’t have told anyone what she majored in or even what her last name was, at least not until halfway through the semester.

Because he was a senior and had been working there for all of his three previous years, he had enough pull to decide who did what as far as the checklist for the late shift. Returning books to stacks, reshelving DVDs, making sure things were turned off and that people left when it was closing time. Honestly the easiest shift if not the quietest. And in the beginning, he’d admit he’d done most of the work just because she did at least look like she studied, not on her phone like most.

(It wasn’t like he was spying on her and looking over her shoulder when she set her laptop up at the front desk each night).

It was boredom that got them talking. A slow night when they’d probably only seen about three people and early enough in the semester for him to feel safe wasting time on a sketch instead of in a book. He’d looked over and seen her laying out notecards, color-coded and with small and tight handwriting that was almost beautiful to see.

“So, what are you, an art major?” she’d interrupted the silence. He’d been sketching a statue, the kind you saw in cemeteries and something etched into memory, when she’d asked and at the sound of her voice, his heart had jumped into his throat.

“Poli Sci, actually,” he put his pencil down and looked her way. That her black hair was in a high ponytail was just about the only obvious evidence that he could see that she was in the midst of midterms like the rest of them. He hadn’t meant to imagine grabbing onto that ponytail while pushing her against the bookshelf behind them so that he could suck on her lips but then the image was there, right next to the image of her wearing tall heeled boots and nothing else.

His mother, God rest her soul, would have slapped the back of his head probably.

“Huh,” she tipped her head and pulled her knees up to her chest, an impressive feat because he’d only ever been tall and couldn’t imagine how she made that office chair look so big.

“Yeah,” he answered, because what else could he do except let the conversation die? Pushing his glasses up, he paused just for a second before looking back at his drawing.

“Those are the wrong glasses for you, you know.”

They’d spent almost two months not talking and then she was interrupting his train of thought. He’d spent almost two months pretending not to look every time she crossed her legs or when she sucked on the end of her pen while she studied, first because she was a sophomore and second because she’d seemed so out of his league, the kind of girl who wouldn’t notice or remember his name even if he’d told her. And suddenly she was asking him about his major and giving him optical advice?

He answered the most logical way he could imagine.

“What?”

She squinted. “Your face isn’t oval. Those are for an oval face.”

He must have looked as confused as he felt because she laughed and scooted her chair closer. “I mean, you should go for heart shaped or maybe round shaped. These frames are too thin.”

“I… will take your opinion into consideration the next time I get glasses,” he responded, impressed that she’d even noticed.

“It’s a cute face. It’s just a shame that you aren’t, you know, wearing the right frames is all.”

She paused and social cues would have dictated it was his turn to say something but his tongue and his brain had decided to mutiny.

He could count on maybe two fingers the times that anyone had ever called him “cute”. And even then, it was the kind of adjective reserved for mothers and great aunts. It wasn’t the kind of thing women said, at least not to him, and the only way he could make sense of it was to assume she was joking.

“Ha,” he answered dryly. The best answer he could think of to save a little of his male ego.

An answer to which her eyebrow darted up faster than fast and she pushed her chair back towards her station and her pretty little pile of index cards. “Oh…kay then.”

It took Steve about five minutes to consider the possibility that maybe she had actually meant it. That maybe she’d meant “cute” in that mysterious way that sometimes girls talked to guys. Running a hand through his hair, he cleared his throat.

“I usually just get whatever they have,” he announced, mentally slapping his forehead with his palm because he couldn’t think of anything better to say and he knew she probably didn’t care, but it was the first thing that had come to mind and he really just wanted an excuse to talk to her again.

She looked up and nodded, so clearly not interested and then he felt like a jerk for even trying.

“I mean, I never thought about the shape of my face or anything and I guess I should have, right? I mean I would if I had your face.”

“My face,” she echoed, and then he knew she was probably laughing internally because he definitely heard the amusement.

“I mean, if I had a face like yours,” he stumbled and it occurred to him that he’d moved from acting like a cold bastard to tripping over his words as though he’d forgotten how to speak. “Your face. It’s...cute too.”

“You think so?” she asked and then she did laugh a little under her breath, the sound of it like a punch to his chest because he had certainly fucked that right up.

Saved by the bell, of course, because before she could say anything Banner, the kid who he’d sat next to in freshman humanities, was standing in front of him asking if he could open up one of the study rooms.

He wanted to simultaneously punch Banner in the face for appearing out of nowhere and then hug him for rescuing Steve from further self-destruction.

“I’m going to go shelve,” she sighed and stood up. “Thanks for the compliment.”

***

Steve’s impending doom, as if things couldn’t get worse, happened in conjunction with Natasha the sophomore-with-matching-black-hair-and-boots shelving. Returning books to their homes in the stacks. Rows and rows of bookshelves that were used more as hideaways for students trying to find a quiet place to study than actual reading.

He’d been locking up and checking aforementioned shelves for students who had been so far gone that they wouldn’t have known it was closing time, when he heard music- soft guitar strumming and clapping- coming from the Christian theology and apologetics section. Figuring a student had decided to study with music, he made his way toward the sound, checking for stragglers along the way.

The source of the music, an iphone propped against a stack of books, wouldn’t have been a big deal even if they were in the library, (it was almost closing time, after all). Catching Natasha, standing on a stool with hips swaying to the beat was a different story.

_You and I both know that the house is haunted_

_Yeah you and I both know that the ghost is me_

_You used to catch me in your bed-sheets just a-rattling your chains_

_Well back then baby, it didn't seem so strange  
_

Steve should have walked away. That would have been smart and logical. And he started to, except that she’d been wearing a short skirt that day and the way she moved to the music sent shivers down his spine. So he got as far as the row over, at least allowing him the chance to peek through the stacks.

It was probably the filthiest thing he’d never in his life expect to see in a library, or maybe even at all unless he’d paid for it in Vegas or something. Perhaps even dirtier because she seemed to be in her own world, humming along with the bluesy rock tune coming from her phone. Steve had never been to a strip club in his life but the mental image of a half-naked woman dancing in blue lighting was suddenly blown out of the water in favor of a clothed Natasha humming to herself as she shelved Aquinas and Luther.

Second verse and she threw her head back, eyes shut tight and body arched toward the books. He couldn’t breathe, his pants tight as his cock responded accordingly.

Chorus and holy shit she’d actually shimmied down into a crouch, knees together even if he prayed otherwise. Steve hoped the church fathers she was shelving would forgive him for his thoughts, wondering if she’d been doing this every night and he was only now figuring out that there was a show.

Even before the song ended, she’d picked up her phone and started pushing the book cart towards the next section of books. Praying she couldn’t hear him exhale, Steve took a step back and leaned his head against the wall of hardbacks behind him, willing his erection to stand down. Three years of working in the library and basically doing nothing and the good Lord had decided to bestow this on him in his penultimate semester. He wondered how he’d make it past Christmas.

***

Steve Rogers. Senior political science major. Part-time school library employee. Apparently full-time creeper.

Because whether she liked it or not, Natasha’s new job was suddenly and definitely shelving books in the stacks. Steve was too busy pretending to be busy so that he could spy on her while she played music, put books in their places, and actually earned her paycheck. There was no way that he could think of rationalizing it and so all he could do was hang his head in shame when they were face-to-face and hope she’d never catch him.

It wasn’t that Steve wanted to spy on her. He recognized that he should probably say something, whether to invite her to coffee or even just to remind her of the library’s quiet policies. He’d made a series of mental promises and done his fair share of bargaining to not follow her around. But then he’d be curious. And well. Despite best intentions, he got why curiosity killed.

“Why are you studying business if you are like, an artist?” she asked him once while they were sitting side-by-side waiting for students to ask stupid questions.

It was the kind of question he’d never even asked himself and the fact that she’d even put him in the same category as an artist in the same sentence made him feel like the most powerful man in the world.

“It’s just a hobby. I mean. Art doesn’t pay the bills or anything,” he smiled, nostalgic for the last time he’d even thought studying art was possible. It was the kind of major that rich kids who had parents who paid for college studied. Kids whose futures didn’t ride on making smart and perfect decisions about everything.

“Wow that’s bullshit,” Natasha said with a straight face.

“It’s not. Poli sci is important. I can go to law school with poli sci.”

“Right. Because the world needs more lawyers.”

“What about you? Tell me you are studying what you love and not what your parents want or what you hope might get you a good job someday.”

“Psych,” she admitted. “Yeah, touché. I mean, not so many millionaire dancers are there?”

“Not unless you’re a stripper, I hear they make good money.”

Natasha took in a deep breath and opened her mouth, not saying anything. It was like watching his life flash before his eyes because how had those words even come out of Steve’s mouth. He’d just given her career advice about stripping and in the same breath given a sweeping and undoubtedly offensive generalization about strippers.

And he wanted to crawl under the front desk and die.

“Oh, Steve…” she started, voice dropping as if she was preparing to give him the scolding he deserved.

“Fuck. I…don’t mean that you should be a stripper. Not that it’s a bad thing because I respect strippers and all. Not that I have any extensive relationships with strippers or anything, I’m sure they are hardworking and deserve all they earn and I know that they are exploited all the time and could make more…fuck, I don’t even know why I let myself talk sometimes…”

He said a mouthful without stopping for air and the kindest thing she could have done would have been to hand him a shovel so that he could finish digging his grave, his thoughts unorganized and his stomach in thick, heavy knots.  

“Steve. I’m going to go shelve. Take a deep breath and don’t say anything for a while,” she smiled, looking less like she wanted to murder him for his attack on strippers and probably all of feminism and more like he was an adorable puppy that needed pity and humoring.

When she left and his stomach settled, he groaned into his hands. It was a sign, he figured, that he probably needed to stay at the library counter until she returned. She hadn’t caught him yet, not that he could tell, but he needed to quit while he was ahead.

Resolve that lasted all of two minutes before he was following Natasha into the rows and rows of books.

She’d changed her hair color. A deep red that reminded him of fire and hung on her shoulders in waves. Steve wondered if he’d ever have the courage to tell her that red suited her and that he didn’t want her to change it. Hair that made it easy to find her along the shelves and there he was peering through books like a coward as she hummed, stopping occasionally to thumb open a book she was supposed to be re-shelving.

_I like your hair. And your face. And all of you_ , he thought as he leaned forward and watched her. 

Last thoughts before the book he’d been leaning against slipped forward, pushing the book in the shelf behind it (the shelf facing Natasha) forward to the ground with a thump.

Though he’d stopped himself from cursing and succeeded in holding his breath in hopes that she didn’t hear, she had heard. Back straightened and on alert, Natasha looked over her shoulder at the book on the ground. And then before Steve could move, his body frozen into the ground, he watched in horror as she looked up, her big green eyes meeting his through the shelves.

He waited for her to say something. Natasha had seen him and any small ground they’d made toward even being friends was undoubtedly irrelevant. The story of his life with girls but especially with her, and then he wondered if he’d ever learn. Probably not, he figured, breath caught in his throat as he waited for her to respond on the other side of the shelves that were the scene of the crime.

Natasha, for reasons he couldn’t comprehend, didn’t respond at all. No words or sounds or pointing fingers to tell him that he was a scumbag. Just picked up her phone and pushed the cart forward.

Not even later, when everything was turned off and put away and she was standing behind him as he locked up. No words, not even a wave goodbye not that he would have seen it because he couldn’t bring himself to look at her.

He didn’t sleep that night. Because maybe she hadn’t seen him. Maybe she’d been so normal after because she hadn’t seen anything at all and it was the universe’s way of telling him that he really had to snap out of it and quit while he was ahead.

It was either that or she had and was biding her time until she could report him for sexual harassment. _Jesus fuck_ , he’d made it all the way until his senior year and he was going to end it all by becoming Steve Rogers, the guy who stared at his female coworkers. Except that Steve wasn’t that guy or at least hadn’t been before he’d started working with Natasha. Hadn’t his mom raised him to know and do better?

He figured it was pathetic enough that he was actually getting what he deserved.

The following evening, he went to work bracing himself for the consequences. If he was lucky, he’d get the chance to apologize for ogling her instead of talking to her like a human being or just respecting her right to work without being observed.

“Hey, Steve,” she greeted him and set her bookbag down on the floor.

And they spent the better part of the shift conducting business as usual. No obvious signs that anything was different. This drove Steve crazy enough that at one point he actually considered bringing it up just because he was feeling suicidal.

“What do you do when you aren’t here?” she asked, pulling him out of his thoughts. It was about the time that she’d usually start shelving and he’d been planning on volunteering to do it in her place. The least he could do.

“I study…” he answered without thinking.

“That’s it? But you also draw. And what else?”

Her interest in his extracurricular activities shouldn’t have thrown him as much as it did. She’d always been the one to start conversations. And yet he’d been waiting for her to confront him about spying on her so much that he wasn’t prepared for her to be nice.

“I don’t know. Nothing. I go to school and I go to work, Natasha.”

She crossed her legs and turned her chair to face him as if conducting an interrogation.

“And? Do you have friends? Do you have a girlfriend? Boyfriend?”

“I… no… do you?”

She smirked and sat back in her chair. “You do this thing, Steve. It’s the sexiest fucking thing that also pisses me off and I don’t understand it. I ask you a question and you look like a deer in headlights. _Every fucking time._ Like talking to me scares you.”

Steve’s jaw hit the floor. This was the massacre he’d been waiting for.

“See you are doing it right now. Your ‘I-don’t-know’ face. Do I scare you Steve?”

He wondered how he could say yes and no at the same time without proving her point but his mouth was too dry to speak anyway.

“What about me scares you though?” She confronted him calmly, evenly as if asking him about a class or the weather. No one walking through would have considered that their conversation was anything out of the ordinary.

Was it even a conversation? Steve couldn’t tell, brain still too stunned to say or do anything.

She had one of those eyebrows raised but the smile on her face said that she was enjoying the entire scene, the tension between them electric.

“It’s a good thing you don’t have a girlfriend though,” she finally shrugged and ran her hands through her hair, back arched enough that her breasts were pointed in his direction and he had to will himself to stare at her face. “Because I can’t imagine she’d like knowing that you stare at girls you work with…”

“Natasha,” his vocal cords had finally decided to start working enough that he could formulate some sort of defense.

“Calm down, soldier. Anyone else and I’d mind.”

“Natasha, I didn’t mean to. I just heard you and I heard music…”

“Anyone else, Steve,” she bit her bottom lip and met his eyes. She looked like there was something more she wanted to add, as though biting her lip was what was holding her silent, and he racked his brain for the right thing to say.

In the end, he kept silent, still trying to make sense of what she was saying and more what she wasn’t. And at about the time that he was about to ask her, she stood up.

“I’m going to put these books away.”

It wasn’t that she was mad, exactly. _Anyone else._ _The fuck did that even mean? Anyone else?_ He thumbed carefully around the possibility that she hadn’t even minded exactly that he’d caught her singing in the stacks.

That night, Steve kept his distance. Whether she said she minded or not, he cared. The entire experience had touched a nerve, a part of himself that he hated. Natasha symbolized all that he’d always struggled with. Either watching her from a distance or stuttering and completely unable to talk to her like a normal human being. An exclamation point on how he felt about himself.

There were things that Steve could do and did well. Remember phone numbers and put faces with names. Nail a class presentation in marketing or be the guy that everyone liked working with because he was easy and nice and you could depend on him to lead if needed. And adults loved him because they could just tell that he was a good kid with an inspirational story. The kid who had wrote college essays about adversity that made teachers weep, ( _That’s the kid from Brooklyn who overcame the death of both parents to ace his classes because he’s a fighter whose gonna make them proud_ ).

He could do a lot of things. Talking to women was not one of those things. Because even if he was smart and well-liked, there was something about telling a girl that he liked her and wanted to see more of her that he couldn’t quite do. Not a phobia of girls, or maybe it was but he was in denial, but rather a fear of putting himself out there. Rejection. Saying the wrong thing. A self-fulfilling prophecy if there ever was one because even before he started talking, he was already convinced he’d find a way to fuck things up.

Evidence found in every other experience he’d ever had, including Peggy back home ( _they’d had chemistry together and she’d been good at giving him the smile of pity anytime he tried_ ) and Sharon in the dorm room next door, ( _there was that smile again, the one time he’d gotten the courage to ask her if she wanted to go for coffee_ ). The smile he’d seen from Natasha a few times already. _You’re sweet but no thanks._

She didn’t bring it up again but he was at least observing her boundaries, something he hoped was an olive branch to ease any tension. And maybe things could return to normal. Or as normal as he could get with the image or her dancing by herself in a quiet library burned into his mind. Well. Steve wasn’t a saint, after all.

***

“Steve, can you draw this for me?”

He’d just finished scanning all of the returned books back in when she’d come to him with a white poster board in one hand. Steve nodded without even questioning what she was asking for and then she was standing at his side thumbing through one of her textbooks.

“I have this presentation. On the hypothalamus, and I thought it would be cool to have a diagram when I go up.”

“The hypothalamus?” he looked down at her book, the page she’d opened up to including an image of the human brain.

“Right. The four f’s,” she continued. “I thought if you could draw the brain and maybe like a basic image of the hypothalamus, I could somehow use it as a visual for the rest. It doesn’t have to be perfect but I swear I can only draw stick figures.”

“Why wouldn’t you label the four parts though?” he asked absentmindedly, reaching over to grab a pencil. It wouldn’t take him more than five or ten minutes.

She laughed and sat on the countertop, her ass inches away from the poster board and all of his concentration and resolve.

“Steve. The four f’s aren’t parts. Functions. Literally every psych teacher’s favorite joke.”

“Ok…” he shrugged, eyes focusing on the textbook or he’d go crazy because whether she’d meant it or not, her sitting so close was damn distracting.

“Our hypothalamus is the part of the brain that controls everything about us that is animal,” she continued and then she was listing them on her fingers. “Food or what makes us hungry... flight. Running away when we are scared…and fighting.”

He nodded and made a soft line on the paper. “That’s three f’s.”

“And then fucking,” she continued, her voice thick and haughty. When he even dared look up at her, he noticed an evil expression that would have scared anyone else. Like she knew saying it would push at his buttons and take his breath away. Natasha, simultaneously small and powerful because everything about her seemed perfect, and he could just close his eyes and imagine her stepping on his heart with those boots.

“Sure, Natasha, I can draw this for you,” he said slowly, wishing she would go back to her end of the circulation desk because she was suddenly making it damn hard to be professional.

“It’s kind of amazing, isn’t it? That such a small area of our brain controls those parts about us that are the most primal,” Natasha continued, leaning close enough that he could hear her breathing and smell the vanilla that she used in her soap.

“Amazing,” he echoed, throat catching because of her proximity. She was most definitely yanking his chain. She had to be. He just prayed he wouldn’t have the chance to say anything that would ruin the moment.

“I mean, you’ve felt that way before? Like fucking someone so hard that you feel like an animal?”

“Natasha,” his voice cracked and he told himself to think about baseball just so that he wouldn’t respond. _Come on, Steve, take a deep breath and be cool._

“I mean, I have. It makes so much sense that we have this center of our brains that is totally animalistic because I know I’ve been there,” she moved close enough that her lips were near his ear. “That moment when your skin is so hot and everything is just skin slapping against skin and the taste of sweat, and your brain has stopped working altogether and you don’t think or know anything because your only goal is life to fuck and come undone.”

“Natasha,” he repeated her name, the second time more of a whine with his eyes shut tight as he gripped the pencil. If anyone even asked, Steve would be hard-pressed to say that this was even real and happening but then he could feel fingers pull at one of the belt loops to his pants and that was definitely real. The truth was that he actually couldn’t ever imagine fucking like an animal. He’d only ever gotten as far as kissing Peggy Carter on the cheek, never even touched a girl’s breasts.

Visions of Natasha fucking anyone like an animal made his vision blurry.

“Flight and fuck, Steve,” she leaned back, resting on hands, and he watched as she spread her thighs as if in invitation. A skirt, of course, not that he was going to look lest the entire scene be a big trap. “Do you want to flee? Or do you want to fuck?”

The third time that he said her name, it was in supplication. He was still in the dark about how much of what was happening was even real, a tiny part of his mind saying that she was definitely screwing around. That she couldn’t possibly be serious, least of all because of the fact that every time they talked he’d managed to put his foot in his mouth. And not even mentioning the fact that she’d caught him spying on her, (though he always rationalized that she’d only ever caught him that one time…) Run away or fuck? Both?

“Natasha, stop…” he said, his voice weak.

“Is that what you want?” she challenged, as if she’d forgotten that they were at work. In a library. As if she’d forgotten about every time he’d made things awkward and weird.

And Steve knew he was giving her the “I-don’t-know” face that she’d once told him she both loved and hated, but his chest was tightening just at the thought of telling her how he felt and what he wanted. To take her home and see how his fantasies compared to the real thing? Absolutely. To take her to dinner and bring her flowers and be the reason she smiled? Undoubtedly.

“I’m feeling dangerous, Steve,” she looked over her shoulder before telling him soberly. “So I’m going to say something I’ve been wanting to say for a few months. I like you. You’re sweet and adorable and you have this crazy idea that I’m better than you or that there’s no way I’d be interested and so every time I think you might make a move, you pull back. It actually makes me want you more. So I’m going to go shelve. You can follow me if you’d like and at the end of our shift, you are going to take me out to whatever diner we can find that’s open and we are going to talk.”

Steve nodded and watched as she stood up to make her way to the book cart.

***

In all actuality, the sound of a quiet and nearly deserted library made things worse. Because Steve could literally feel the sound of his pulse and could literally feel all of the cells in his body screaming. He’d given her a good head start before standing up to trail behind her as she started the late night task of putting things away, doing his part to check study carrels and corners for students or misplaced books along the way.

She looked over her shoulder, not saying a word, just acknowledging his compliance, and before he knew it, she’d unzipped her grey hoodie. Fascinated, he watched as she casually discarded the sweater along the shelf that she’d just finished working at. He picked it up behind her, catching the sway of her ass as she walked ahead of him.

A shelf over and he noticed that she’d pulled her hair down, tossing the hair tie on the ground. He’d picked that up too, more than happy to pick up her bread crumbs.

Cart almost empty, Steve stood behind a shelf and kept guard as Natasha stood on a stool and did her job. He didn’t know what to expect, still as confused as he was curious. She looked over her shoulder again and met his eyes, flashed a quick smile that caused him to hold his breath and clutch her sweater tight against his chest.

Per logic of putting books away, Natasha was facing the shelf and so he didn’t even realize what was going on until she was sliding pale pink panties down around her thighs to her knees to her ankles, gracefully stepping out of them one foot at a time before dropping her underwear on the ground.

It was crazy. She’d said she was feeling dangerous and as Steve looked over his shoulder to make sure no one else had seen what he’d just witnessed, he hoped she’d consider mission accomplished. Instead of pushing the cart back to the circulation desk as she might on a normal day, he watched as Natasha made her way to the stairs. Second floor. _Periodicals and archives_.

Like a moth to the flame, Steve added her panties to his pile of discarded belongings before following her. His chest clenched as he trailed behind. She’d left her panties behind. Knowing _he_ was behind her. Knowing _he_ would pick them up. His body had been aching since start of the game, since her psychology lesson and everything that followed, and when he ran a thumb over the soft cotton he whimpered.

When he ran the same thumb over the gusset, he flat-out moaned. Wet. And for reasons he didn’t understand, he was the reason. This was the point at which he would have crawled after her, his mind focused on one thing. That Natasha was not only wet, but bare underneath that skirt. That Natasha was bare and if he ever got the chance to see underneath her skirt he’d die a happy man.

Steve followed her to the archives, a magical part of the library that few people actually ever visited unless really feeling the pressure. Obscure journals and back issues that couldn’t be found by searching the online journals. He’d only ever needed to go back there once for a class. Thick, heavy rolling shelves that were the last logical place where Natasha would even go if she was re-shelving.

He felt her before he could see her. Turning the corner, his heart pounding in his ears, Steve looked and didn’t at first see her. But then Natasha was behind him and pulling his wrist toward the last row.

“Natasha,” he said her name only once before he found himself pushed against the wall between two shelves, her mouth on his and hands on his chest. She was strong, pushing into him as she pressed her lips against his, and it wasn’t a surprise based on what he already knew about her. Steve stood pinned against the wall and he would have felt claustrophobic if not for the throbbing between his legs and that he could feel every hair on his head. And then he didn’t have room to feel anything other than how soft her lips were.

“Fuck, I’ve been wanting to do that for months,” she sighed, standing on her toes to inhale into his neck.

“So have I,” he admitted, mind racing over what was happening and the reality that Natasha was pressed against him, kissing him in the back row of the library archives.

“You wanna keep going?” she bit her bottom lip, tugging his shirt gently. Still clearly in control, still cornering him.

As if he’d even say no, because all he really wanted was to pull her close.

“Natasha, we are at work. Someone could see,” he rationalized weakly.

She gave him a wicked grin, the kind that sent shivers down his spine, the kind that said _exactly._

“Can you be a good boy and promise not to make a sound?” she asked, pulling onto the waistband of his pants.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “Natasha, I don’t want to get into trouble. This would look so bad.”

“So you want to stop?”

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t, and it felt like the world’s worst dilemma. What made things worse that it really shouldn’t have even been a dilemma. There she was, hand inches above his cock, and he was afraid of getting caught. He looked up at her, checking her eyes for any hint that she was playing him or that she was having second thoughts.

Natasha pulled one of his hands in between hers before leaning forward to kiss him again, hungry and begging. She tasted like candy and he could feel any resolve he might have had leaving. As if the animal side that she’d told him about was taking over whether he liked it or not. A slight pinch and she was tugging on his lip, perhaps showing off her own primal side.

The exact moment that Steve stopped caring. All of the worse case scenarios, starting with getting caught and getting fired and ending magnificently with hurting her in some way, and all he could think about was the fact that she was standing in front of him and that he was still clutching her underwear and jacket. Articles he wisely dropped because then he had two hands to put on her waist, fingers itching for permission to go lower.

“I’m going to take that as a ‘no’…how are you even real?” she mumbled into his mouth, a question he thought hilarious because he could ask her the same thing, though that would require speaking and he’d much rather be using his lips and tongue to explore her mouth or plant kisses along her throat. _How was any of it even real?_ Natasha panting when he gave her any chance for air. Natasha darting her tongue out when he'd accidentally opened his mouth for his own chance to breathe and then he'd accidentally realized exactly what all the fuss with tongues was even about. When he experimented and slipped his tongue past her lips, she moaned and started sucking.

It made Steve melt. As if he wasn't already putty in Natasha’s hands.

“I would tell you that I’m going to go slow, but I’d be lying,” she whispered as she planted kisses along his chin. He nodded, feeling feverish and stupid and then before he could think, she'd popped the button to his jeans.

"Holy..." he whimpered before a hand clasped against his mouth.

"We are in a library, Steve," she admonished him and that just added to the intensity, to the level of want and even need he felt because Natasha was in control. Because Natasha was in control and he knew he would do whatever she wanted if it meant her not ever stopping. Her other hand was so damn close to his dick and he was pretty damned close to begging, if she'd just touch him...

"Do you want me to touch?" she asked sweetly, almost incongruent with the fact that she had her hand over his mouth. When he nodded because _oh God, yes please_ , she licked her lips and moved close.

"Don’t make a sound,” she warned.

Steve’s initial thought when she had started undoing his pants, was that she _might_ touch him there. That he _might_ feel her hands and then he’d have both the visual memory and a sensation to go along with it. Something he could jack off to for the rest of his life. She snaked a hand into his jeans and palmed him through his boxers and he would have felt embarrassed about the fact that she’d grazed over a wet spot but she’d put just the right amount of pressure _there_ and it definitely didn’t seem like she cared.

He’d thought she might touch him. And when her hand disappeared into his underwear and he felt skin, he was grateful. A very lucky hand-job with the sophomore psych major who’d been driving him slowly insane all semester. It was a good thing that he hadn’t placed any bets on that thought. She’d warned him she wouldn’t go slow after all.

“Shhhh,” she reminded him, reaching with a quick kiss as she pulled him out. Cool air against his skin and very clear knowledge that anyone walking by would know exactly what was going on, and Steve had to reach up to grip the shelving on either side of them for support.

He thought, as she had him in one hand, that being quiet was possible. He could do quiet. It would take superhuman strength but it was feasible.

Until she was on her knees.

“Holy _Christ_ ,” he moaned. She looked up at him with an arched brow that told him he’d better behave before reaching up to hold him in her hands again.

Anticipation. The excitement that she might jerk him off in the library suddenly replaced with the need for her mouth. He watched incredulously as she took him in hand, his heart pounding loud enough that she had to hear. Natasha looked up at him and smirked and then he might have lost track of time because of the heat of her breath and the sudden, blessed _wet_ of her mouth.

She worked quietly and it certainly felt like she was taking her time. Gentle sucking, a swirl of her tongue that made his eyes roll into the back of his head, bobbing up and down and each time taking in a little more. Watching her, hair spilling around her shoulders, her own eyes shut as if sucking him off was exactly what she wanted, and Steve had to bite his hand to keep from crying out.

They could have been caught. It was a thought that made him harder and then he was bucking his hips forward into her mouth, a reaction that he felt instantly guilty for because she coughed and pulled back a little, leaving a trail of saliva behind.

“Sorry,” he whispered and she started to smile, even as she was tonguing at the underside of his dick. Instead of reminding him to keep quiet, she took him back in, this time hands on his thighs to hold him back.

It felt like she was taking her time until it didn’t, until she’d found the right rhythm and he could feel the familiar coil of heat and pressure building up. Steve put a tentative hand on her head, pausing to feel her red hair between his fingers because it was exactly as soft as he’d thought it might be, before moving to stroke her cheek. It was an action that he’d meant as a way to signal that he was close, but then he was running a finger along her jawline and she was looking up at him with dark eyes that were one hundred percent sex.

“I’m close,” he whispered, knowing it came out more like a cry than a whisper not that he cared. Not that she minded either, apparently, because she didn’t stop. Natasha didn’t stop and in fact was moaning into his cock and then Steve looked down and realized she had moved one of her hands away from his thighs to reach underneath her skirt.

She hadn’t broken her rhythm and was in fact taking him in deeper still, as if not threatened at all by the fact that he was harder and pulsating in warning. Miracle of miracles, she hadn’t stopped and was in fact hand buried into her own wetness. There he was, not even really naked or exposed as she hadn’t pushed his pants down at all, and yet feeling very vulnerable.

He’d spent so much time worrying about taking advantage of her or worrying that he’d broken boundaries, but at the end of the day, she had just as much power if not more. He’d never felt so _malleable_ , because he would have done whatever she wanted then. She could have asked him for anything and he would have agreed, reason number one being the fact that she very directly controlled whether or not he came at all.

At which point Steve Rogers, senior business major and part-time library employee, lost touch with reality. Biting his hand again because _he didn_ _’_ _t want to get caught, didn_ _’_ _t want her to ever stop,_ Steve couldn’t even warn her properly again because he was too busy seeing stars. A tiny presence of mind suggested that logically she was about to move, about to stop because she couldn’t possibly _not_ stop, and the fact that she hadn’t and was taking him and he could feel her throat as she swallowed made him feel weak in the knees.

Even after he’d finished, Natasha was bringing him down with soft licks and kisses. Steve thought he could feel a lump in his throat but he pushed that away, looking down instead as she gave him smug and satisfied grin from below.

“Have I killed you yet, old man?” she purred, licking her bruised lips, hair slightly disheveled and eyes watering.

“I’m not sure,” he panted, head back against the wall for support.

“You don’t sound dead,” she said as she stood up and pulled him down so that she could kiss his lips. She tasted salty and a little bitter but with that same underlying sweetness and he was more than happy to pull her close for more.

“It’s your turn,” he said as he kissed her, knowing that it wouldn’t be nice or polite if she didn’t also finish.

“Oh, it’s so tempting,” she grinned, pulling his hand underneath her skirt. He fumbled, feeling clumsy, for the folds that years of porn told him were there and she shivered, clutching his arms so as not to fall. She was so slick, something that made him twitch even though he was sure he’d need more time to recover, wet enough that he could almost _hear_ it as he ran two fingers along her cunt.

“Is that okay?” he asked, because his new primary goal was not to fuck it up, especially given his track record. When he looked up at her, eyes shut tight and face flushed, he knew he at least wasn’t doing it wrong.

“Fuck…” she whispered slowly, drawing out each letter as he pulled his fingers up and examined them. They’d long made it past the point where he thought he should worry that she’d start laughing at him and so when he put his fingers in his mouth so as to taste what she tasted like down there, he was only pleasantly surprised that her eyes were glassy and her mouth was open wide in amazement.

Steve didn’t have time to ask any more questions because Natasha had shifted so that one leg was propped up on the lowest shelf and he was standing in the place where only minutes earlier she’d been on her knees. As good a direction as any and Steve was good at taking directions. Dropping to his knees as if in prayer, Steve touched her knees and looked up for confirmation. She’d worn those boots again and the opportunity was too good to pass up because then he was planting kisses along the black leather of the elevated leg. It was the kind of adoration he’d fantasized about for months and it was perfect. Natasha moaned and he looked up, mimicking her earlier face in order to remind her about her own rules, before moving his lips up to the inside of her thigh.

When he lifted her skirt just slightly, he could hear her draw in a sharp breath. She was perfect and real and he took a good minute to memorize her curls and the hint of moisture that he could see even from where he knelt.

“Just tell me if I do anything wrong,” he told her before moving forward to touch her lips.

She huffed and wiggled, “You’re making me think you’ve never done this before.”

Instead of confirming or denying, Steve spread her open and darted his tongue along the nub at the top. He hadn’t known what to expect as far as taste or texture but was pleased and even relieved that she tasted like flesh. The angle, more than anything, made it tricky and he was sure he’d have a neckache later but when he pulled her clit in between his lips and heard a choking sound, he decided neck pains were well worth it.

Instead of relying on just suction, Steve thought it wise to explore, letting his tongue trace circles and lines along the bumpy surfaces, listening for her breathing and any changes that said he was going in the right direction.

“Fingers,” she whispered, a plea and not an order though he was happy to comply. After licking the fingers he’d used earlier, he was knuckle-deep into the darkest and wettest part of her. He was pretty sure it was paradise, at least from where he was sitting. Her hands moved to grab fistfuls of his hair, not so subtle signals that she wanted more pressure and maybe even more suction. _Anything_ , he thought as he slowly pumped his fingers.

Steve wanted to tell her, head buried below her skirt in the back row of the library archives, that he thought she was amazing and that he was probably in love with her. Even if it sounded absurd. They weren’t even dating and he had no doubts that his feelings were at least due in part to the fact that she tasted so good, that she’d made him feel so damned good. He even mentally prepared and rehearsed what he would say as she quivered above him. _I love you I love you I love you, I am going to marry you, God you are so perfect it hurts._

Thoughts he’d have to table until later because she was digging her nails into his scalp and when he looked up, it seemed like she was about to scream except that no sound was coming out. Her standing leg wobbled and he held her, one hand on her core as she came. Nothing like anything he’d ever seen, proof that the internet was full of lies and pretense, and instantly addicting because he’d give an arm and a leg to see _that_ again.

Natasha shivered and slid down to the floor, cheeks rosy and looking worse for wear, and Steve realized that they were probably obscenely late in closing up the library. They definitely hadn’t fulfilled their duties in keeping the circulation desk safe, though he honestly didn’t think he cared anymore.

“You’re still taking me out after we lock up,” she said as she caught her breath. Steve used his shirt to wipe at his mouth.

“Wherever you want to go.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just don't even know. Oh Steve...


	5. Prompt 19: Antojos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 19: … having a wet dream and calling the other’s name during it (as requested by elcapitan-rogers).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one. I don't think it's "technically" an id-fic. But it might be. I have a smidge of regrets and kind of think I *may* have botched it. I guess that's kind of the point of a drabble. Like I know there is something missing but I can't figure out what. 
> 
> Also, fits in with the same storyline of [that one fic that I wrote that one time](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3318458/chapters/7251386) but you don't need to have read it. 
> 
> Her Wonderfulness El-Capitan also requested #20 so I will have something to compliment it.

Superheroes sleep like shit.

This alliteration, however cheesy, might as well have been fact. If anyone was to do a poll, they’d see the familiar pattern of insomnia and nightmares and flat-out sleep-avoidance as clear as day. A common symptom. An occupational hazard.

Steve hadn’t ever seen Natasha sleep. At least not well. She wasn’t a person who would fall asleep on a plane or a train or anywhere, not adaptive in that way like some might expect. Not jumpy, at least not outwardly, but on guard. She didn’t literally sleep with one eye open but it was another example of how he’d never be able to successfully sneak up on her.

But with the pregnancy, she slept. Steve figured there were some good scientific reasons for this. Hormonal shifts. The amount of energy it takes to grow someone. Unconscious preparation for sleepless nights. She wasn’t showing yet, not really, and so it was almost easy to forget that there was a person emerging in there.

Not that he had forgotten, not even for a second. Images of a graceful and controlled Natasha suddenly flustered as she told him, as she trembled in a way so out of character he was sure no one would believe it. He was almost sure he didn’t believe it, but he’d lived through enough to know that “impossible” was just someone’s opinion.

_He was conceived about four months ago…_

She still wasn’t showing and so it was still very much her secret. Their secret, now, and that was something that made his chest ache when he thought of it. _Something that’s ours. Just ours._ A private and miraculous truth and he wasn’t passing out cigars or getting pats on the back from Tony and Clint. She wasn’t pouring over baby magazines and getting pestered about names during board meetings or when she should have been training a rookie on how not to get killed.

An unexpected quiet. An unexpected almost-normalcy.

She curled against him as he lay in bed and tried to make sense of the newspaper on his lap, and it felt so normal and good. Her head on his shoulder as he worked on parsing the Spanish headlines, his arm curled naturally against her, cupping her body as she sighed.

He felt guilty for enjoying it.

“Are you tired?” he asked softly, thumb stroking her bare arm. It wasn’t even noon and he wondered if she might also be drowsy just out of boredom, (not as many bad guys to fight when one is hiding out from the world).

“Just fifteen minutes,” she yawned, reaching over to grip him tight with one arm. “I hate this. It feels like I’ve been drugged.”

Well. They both knew what _that_ was like. Memories that caused his throat to close up.

“If you took twenty, no one would know,” he kissed the top of her head, suddenly anxious to give her as much time as she needed.

***

At first, when she shifted against him, he didn’t think anything of it. He’d just put the paper down so that he could close his own eyes. Not that he was tired. Steve wasn’t an exception to the aforementioned sleep problems after all, but something about resting with her on a lazy morning sounded romantic. Soft sounds of the city outside and peeks of sun through her curtains. It was a fairytale.

Asleep, lips pouted and face lax, she looked like a different person. Not severe, not ready to fight, not guarded. Not like she’d been broken and used and done the using herself. Almost, he thought as he studied her eyelashes, like a normal young mother-to-be. Beautiful, and it stirred up all of the candy-coated Pollyanna fantasies he’d divorced so long ago from his heart. Things he’d only until recently even given himself permission to think about even cautiously.

The moan that fell from her lips, so quiet it almost sounded like a sigh, stirred up something else entirely. A little too close to the soft noises he’d heard her make when they were definitely not sleeping, memories that had him feeling hot all over.

It caught him off guard. Not unpleasant, because what could be considered uncomfortable or unpleasant about a sleeping Natasha in his arms, her body flushed and heavy and suddenly her hips lifting slightly into him. He’d played it off just normal body movements, normal things people do when they sleep. His mind playing tricks on him even though the arm she’d thrown over him earlier was clutching him tighter. And then a small, breathy moan that had him holding his breath because he didn’t want to wake her.

The flutter of her eyelids was confirmation that she was dreaming and what could Steve do except silently stroke the back of her arm with his thumb. A soft touch that she at least didn’t seem to mind in her sleep because she’d moaned again, this time louder.

“Shhh…” he whispered into her hair as he considered all of the different things she could be dreaming about. Dreams were strange, he knew, and even more so for anyone who had seen what she’d seen. War, dark places, random storylines that made no sense…

“Don’t…” she mumbled, his thumb ending its slide along her arm in response. “Stop…”

She could have been dreaming about anything.

“Ssssteve…” she whispered into his arm, words drawn out and voice heavy. “Don’t stop…”

“Okay,” he said, voice unsteady. He wasn’t sure if she was talking in her sleep entirely or not, so he returned to the soft stroking of her skin that he’d started with. It was a good kind of stuck, holding her as she dreamed, shifting so that one leg was draped over his body. A good kind of stuck in feeling the softness of her skin , holding his breath as she mumbled a mixture of nonsensical words, obscene sounds, and his name.

 _Well, alright,_ he thought to himself, feeling a bit voyeuristic but he definitely wasn’t going to wake her in the event that she was having one of _those_ dreams. It wasn’t exactly torture holding the mother of his child as she writhed against him, though he did hope she’d wake up sooner rather than later. _The mother of his child._ He was already in love with her, already so in pieces that whatever they had started and were doing might somehow have a chance and work, and wasn’t this just the cherry on top? He thought about the person growing inside of her and the fact that somehow, parts of both of them were knitting together to form whoever that person was and would become.

_God he loved her._

It couldn’t have been much longer and he noted the change in her breathing, a different shift in her body to signal that she was waking up. The time to think about her and about them and whatever “they” were had felt indulgent but also special. Even so, he looked at her with curiosity, wondering if she’d remembered what she’d dreamed about.

When she looked up at him, chin resting on his chest and eyes bleary, he thought for a second that maybe she hadn’t. Not that he’d ask her.

“How long…” she asked with a sleepy sigh.

“Not long, “ he confirmed.

He thought maybe she’d forgotten until she’d slid the hand that had been on his waist toward the part of him that had definitely not forgotten.

“I had the best dream,” Natasha purred.

“Really…” Steve answered, doing his absolute best to feign ignorance, a hard task made harder by the way she was suddenly cupping him through his pants.

And then Natasha was pressed against him and working that knee that had only minutes earlier been draped over his body like a dead weight, in between his legs. She looked suddenly more wolfish than sheepish, not that Steve cared because he was quite frankly along for the ride, his free hand moving to her thigh.

“Yes, and you were there,” she explained before leaning forward to meet his lips with hers. “It was… vivid.”

“Do you want to…” he panted into her neck, “talk about it?”

She shook her head and tugged at his pants, and it was quite clear that she was much more interested in _doing_ rather than talking. Steve didn’t pretend to know or understand the psychology of women, least of all pregnant women, and even less about Natasha, but she kissed him like she was starving. And minutes later when she’d shimmied out of her pants and pulled his down long enough so that she could straddle him and take what she wanted, Steve noted that she sighed like him inside her was a craving fulfilled.

_He doesn’t want to tell her how beautiful she is above him, how much she really does glow. So Steve settles for letting his hands run along her back and then her hips and thighs as she flutters and sighs above him. Her eyes are shut tight and a part of him feels used. For Steve, this is just fine. She looks like art and he is overcome with emotion. Emotion for how beautiful she is, for the heaviness of her breasts and the new curve of her abdomen and all of the circumstances that have led to that._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> antojos= cravings :)


End file.
